


Suicidal, You Say?

by CatLovePower



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Burns, Episode Tag, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: A collection of tags and missing scenes for each episode, with more hurt!Riggs because that's how I roll.





	1. 101: Bullet holes in all his favorite clothes

It turned out Riggs was running on fumes. After the obligatory “I can’t believe you shot me!” and some banter, he laid his head back on the asphalt and refused to move, smiling like a drunk man who had fallen from his bar stool. Was he smiling because he was happy to be alive after that stunt he pulled? Murtaugh couldn’t really tell; that man was a mystery to him. Interesting, irritating, but still a mystery.

The kid they rescued seemed a bit shell shocked, which was understandable. He sat in silence, his knees drawn in front of him, looking at them with admiration and fear. Murtaugh gave him his phone to call him mom after he made sure paramedics and backup were on route.

Riggs had closed his eyes, so Murtaugh shook him slightly, trying not to jar his injured shoulder. The younger cop’s eyes shot open and he tried to punch him, but the pain made him weak.

“Calm down, it’s me. An ambulance is coming. Try to stay awake…”

He kept talking quietly, then pushed Riggs back down and tried to apply pressure his shoulder. After some squirming and grunting, Riggs seemed to accept his fate and let his partner manhandle him. The wound was still bleeding, but only sluggishly, and Murtaugh was confident it wasn’t too bad.

“You ruined my shoe,” Riggs said with a frown.

Murtaugh coughed, then added, “And you’re going to need a new jacket.”

“Nah, it’s just a tiny hole.” Riggs waved his good hand, trying to convey his point.

“And a lot of blood,” Murtaugh said. All over his hands and clothes now. In fact, it was a bit alarming. He suddenly hoped the ambulance wasn’t too far away.

“I’ve had worse,” Riggs reassured him with a drawl. “At least the bullet’s not inside.”

Murtaugh didn’t know why Riggs decided to add this tidbit of information, but it twisted his guts and made his hands shake ever so slightly.

“You can tell?”

“Oh yeah,” Riggs said. “It’d hurt a lot more if it was.”

“I’ve never been shot,” Murtaugh said, without knowing why. “But I had open heart surgery,” he added, as if it was a competition of sorts.

They stayed in silence for a while, listening to the sirens coming closer. Oscar had hung up and seemed to be trying really hard not to cry now.

“I was okay with dying tonight, you know,” Riggs said, and he sounded far away, all of a sudden, slightly slurring his words. Murtaugh looked at his face, and even in the yellow lights, he seemed ashen.

“No dying tonight, you hear me.” He pushed a little harder on Riggs’ shoulder, as if to punish him of even voicing those thoughts.

Help had arrived without him noticing, and all of sudden, there was a flurry of activity around them. Lights, barked orders, radio chatter. Officers took Oscar to safety. The area was being cordoned off. Murtaugh never let go of Riggs’ shoulder, never looked away from his face.

He knew what adrenaline and shock could do to the human body. He’d never been shot himself, but he lost a partner a while back, when he was still a rookie. It had been terrifying to feel the life ebb away from someone he knew, see them fade before his eyes. Riggs’ groan brought him back to the present; shining eyes looking at his face, a hand patting his arm.

“I’ll be okay.”

Paramedics approached and quickly took over. In less than a minute, Riggs was pushed and prodded, his shoulder packed with gauze, an IV line inserted in his other arm. They didn’t take his shoe off, and for that Murtaugh was grateful, because he didn’t think he could face the gory mess he caused.

As they wheeled him to the waiting ambulance, one of them asked, “Are you riding with us?”

He must have looked confused and afraid, because that was not something they usually did.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Riggs answered for him. He had a loopy smile on his face, courtesy of the good drugs they administered. “I’m leaving you with the paperwork,” he said with a laugh that ended in a cough.

“You won’t get out of it so easily,” Murtaugh joked back as they closed the ambulance doors and took off, leaving him in the middle of a crime scene.

He mentally shook himself. Now was not the time to feel guilty for saving a suicidal man. He was not going to let himself get sucked in Riggs’ spiral of self-destruction. Easier said than done.


	2. 102: Jumping through windows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (That episode was such a whumpfest, it’s hard to choose what to emphasize… Who am I kidding, there is always room for a little more hurt and angst!)

Saying that Murtaugh was pissed would have been the understatement of the century. He was beyond pissed; his fingers twitched as he imagined strangling his new partner. Such a rude, lazy, weird character... He was currently slouched next to him, rumpled clothes, messy hair, big glasses obscuring his face. Was he even listening to Murtaugh’s angry ramblings about food and apologies? He wasn’t even sure. But when Riggs finally turned around and took the shades off, revealing an ugly shiner on his right eye, Murtaugh felt a twinge of something unexpected, deep inside.

He didn’t even try to discuss. He didn’t want to know who Riggs pissed off, when he was expected at the Murtaughs’. That guy had a strange idea of a nice evening, and Murtaugh sure didn’t want to get sucked in a life of misery and fistfights. He didn’t even want him as a partner!

Murtaugh saw himself as a family man. That was probably why he felt bad for his soon to be ex-partner (if he had a say in it), in a confused sort of way. Then he berated himself; Riggs was a crazy person, he didn’t need any protection. Psychiatric help and maybe some vacation, sure, but certainly not him worrying about his well being.

*

The day wasn’t getting any better, at least from Murtaugh’s point of view. Riggs seemed to have a blast. They got shot at, Riggs stole a motorcycle, he nearly got ran over by a propane truck, which later exploded in Hollywood. Murtaugh was pretty sure Riggs was drinking on the job, and the real problem was that Murtaugh felt as if he may need to take a drop himself if he wanted to survive the day.

The sheer amount of running was probably enough to cause him a second heart attack. That, and random adrenaline surges. When he looked up to see his partner on the ledge of a rooftop, looking down as if it was nothing, he thought his heart had stopped for a second. That was stupid, really, because he didn’t even know the man that much. A cynical person would have argued that it would generate a lot of paperwork. A squeamish person, that such a fall would be gory. Murtaugh just felt cold, inside. He screamed at Riggs, feeling useless, watching the scene unfold from afar.

Then he spotted the sniper. He took a shot, got Riggs’ attention. But he never expected him to react like he did. It was a thing of beauty, that jump across the street, holding the woman they were trying to protect, shielding her from the shards of glass when they went through a window.

Stupid, idiot, imbecile, crazy Riggs. Murtaugh kept insulting a man that was probably dead right now, as he ran up the stairs of the building opposite the rooftop. It felt good, all that anger. Better than worrying. He was up four, maybe five floors when he heard the commotion. Several people were talking what he assumed to be Mandarin. Natasha was standing in the hallway, shaking slightly; she looked really frightened, and Murtaugh could understand the feeling.

“Riggs?” Murtaugh asked warily.

He holstered the gun he hadn’t even realized he was still holding. Then he showed his badge to Natasha, hoping she wouldn’t run away once again. Apparently a sniper on the roof was enough of a deterrent. The family kept yapping, and Murtaugh made them go back inside their apartment with hand gestures, repeating that they would pay for the damages.

The most damaged thing seemed to be Riggs, at the moment. He was slumped against the wall, as if he had trouble staying on his feet. Murtaugh couldn’t see his face, too much hair everywhere, but he heard the small grunt of pain as distinctively as if it had been a scream.

“We need an ambulance,” Murtaugh said. It was neither a question nor an affirmation, just a tentative helping hand.

“No!” Riggs said, a shout between clenched teeth.

He was no longer laughing or joking, so he must hurt badly. Murtaugh came closer and tried to put a hand on his shoulder, help him stand up, but Riggs swiftly took a step back, as if he had been burned. His left shoulder was hanging slightly lower than the right. Beneath the rumpled shirt, Murtaugh realized he could see the joint popping out of its socket. He must have paled, because Riggs said, “Don’t worry, I got this,” in that gruff voice he used sometimes, when he was playing tough.

Before Murtaugh could protest or actually call for help, Riggs walked to the stairs, and rammed his shoulder into the wall. Natasha hid behind her hands with a yelp, and Riggs let out a strangled shout, because the joint was still not back in place. Murtaugh knew he should have stopped him, restrained him and got him to a hospital, but it was gross and fascinating, and the second time was the charm. Riggs let out a sigh that sounded like a whimper, holding the wall to keep upright.

Murtaugh was still gaping at him when Riggs turned around, chirpier already, and explained, “Not the first time that happened. It’s easier now.”

“You, my friend, are a maniac.”

“So you see me as your friend now?”

“Captain Avery’s orders”, he joked – even though it was kind of true. Riggs could do with a friend anyway. As long as he was the one getting hurt and didn’t ask him to participate. “So, no hospital?” he asked once again, just to make sure.

*

He may have gone soft, for a while, inviting Riggs to dinner again. He felt kind of bad that Riggs believed, in that twisted mind of his, that it was better to suffer alone than to open up to people. But when Riggs grabbed the last rib on the plate, eating like the disgusting person he was, his confidence started to waver.  

He felt the familiar frustration come back in earnest when Riggs started offering a beer to his underage son. Who did that? Was it a Texas thing, or just a crazy cop thing? But he saved face, made a joke, tried to stay calm.

So when he came back downstairs, and Riggs had cleared the dishes and vanished, the distant ache was back, the little voice telling him he wasn’t a good friend right now, even though he was pretty sure they weren’t friends at all.

Something akin to relief flooded his thoughts when he found Riggs asleep in the backyard, looking peaceful for once. The lines of pain and worry that etched his face all afternoon were gone. He took the beer bottle from his lax fingers and draped a blanket over him; it wasn’t a hospital, but at least he wasn’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 103: cattle prod!


	3. 103: Cattle prod!

Even before he became “crazy”, Riggs had always been reckless. No, that wasn't the right term. He used to be a good cop and an accomplished marksman. But he also was an adrenaline junkie, there was no denying it. That explained why he never kept a partner very long – not that he was getting them killed or anything! But they always ended up requesting a transfer, taking some vacation or going on sick leave. Riggs never took sick days.

And now he cultivated that. He might seem carefree and dangerous, but he was focused and paying attention, most of the time. His craziness was a defense mechanism, a way to keep people at arm’s length. That way, all the whispers behind his back were focused on him, and not on his wife’s death. Most of the officers at the station didn’t even know why he was such a mess – last week he heard them talk about a ploy to get a pension and an early retirement, playing the mental illness card.

Maybe he was really mad, he thought idly. He should ask Cahill about that; what happened when an already mentally unbalanced person was victim of a tragedy. But no, he wasn’t the victim here.

There was a draft in the trailer; he didn’t close the door last night. The cool morning breeze was raising goose bumps on his naked skin. Who needed clothes when you lived like a hobo, right? He coughed and trudged his way to the other side of the trailer, to take a leak, then open a beer. Or maybe the other way around, who knows, he was reckless like that. He ran a hand through his hair; Miranda loved doing that. Just running her hands through his curls. He shuddered.

Clothes were a bother. He wrestled with a shirt and pants, wincing all the way, not bothering with underwear or a t-shirt. Has he been wearing the same pants for a month or so? Did he really care? The answer to both questions was maybe. He coughed some more; his hair smelt like smoke and booze, but he didn’t remember drinking last night. The TV sat uselessly, looking forlorn and shattered, a bit like him.

*

There was sand in his boots. That single thought kept turning over and over in his head while Avery was talking, and Murtaugh was talking, and honestly, Riggs couldn’t care less right now. Another example of his recklessness: not listening to a briefing that might be useful later. He bent to take the shoes off, intending on putting sand all over the station floor. But the movement jolted his side, and he barely stifled a cry of pain.

Sitting as still as possible, looking like he was totally listening to everything, he put a shaky hand under his shirt, his fingers brushing the burned flesh there. It was hot and pulsing, as if electrical current was still irradiating from the wound. Oozing whatever burns oozed. He grabbed some napkins from the table and stuffed them in the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t need additional laundry on top of everything.

“… Riggs?”

“Listening,” he mumbled, raising his head. Everyone in the room was looking at him, making him feel uncomfortable, all of a sudden.

“Your phone is ringing,” Murtaugh remarked. “Are you okay?” he added, because Riggs had to grip the table when he stood up.

“Cahill,” Riggs said. “Forgot my appointment…”

“Go, just go!” Avery said, hushing him out of the room.

Murtaugh stayed put, but his eyes followed him all the way to the end of the corridor. He worried too much.

*

Cahill was a good person, but sometimes she could be grating. She was nagging and intrusive, with spot-on questions and pointed looks. Or maybe he only felt that way because some part of him knew she could see beyond his façade. He didn’t like the scrutiny, it made him feel naked. He twisted slightly on the couch, trying to peel his shirt off his side.

“You look hot,” she said, frowning.

“You too,” he blurted without looking up. He flashed an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re flushed,” she corrected.

She sat down next to him on the couch before he could protest. When she raised a hand to feel his brow, he felt his body go rigid, and had to stop himself from pushing her aside. The hand brushed his hair away and rested a moment on his forehead, cool and small, unyielding. When she took it away, he realized he had closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“You know you’re allowed sick days,” she berated him, not leaving his side, her eyes so big and caring.

He struggled internally for a second. He could have laughed it off, downplaying everything with a smile and a joke. He could have pretended he had the flu or something, and hole up in his drafty and now TV-less trailer for a few days. Acting on impulse, he said, “Could you patch me up?”

She looked at him quizzically, so he raised his shirt and took the sticky napkins away, revealing the ugly looking burn the cattle prod left in his side. It was red and puffy; just looking at it made him want to hurl, so he focused on Cahill instead.

He half-expected her to freak out, like a normal person would, or shout at him and threaten to report him. But she just shook her head, looking sad and lost in thought. Then she stood up and told him to stay put, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

Riggs could have snuck out. But he stayed, on the off chance that she wouldn’t come back with the captain or paramedics in tow. After all, she kept telling him he needed to open up. Well he was, literally. That, and he felt too woozy to move right now; the couch was beyond comfortable. He leaned back and waited.

*

Cahill came back alone with a bulky first-aid kit she put on the coffee table.

“Take your shirt off,” she said. Her face was hard and she wasn’t smiling.

“Buy me a drink first, doc,” Riggs joked, but it sounded lame, so he complied.

When he got stuck, she helped him, and then put the rumpled shirt aside. She gestured to his belt and added, “Drop the pants too, if you don’t want Betadine on them.”

“People might talk…” Riggs said, but he lowered his pants nonetheless, just enough to free his right hip.

“People are already talking, don’t worry,” Cahill said with a tight smile while she put on latex gloves. She turned and raised an eyebrow when she realized he was going commando, but said nothing.

Her gloved hands were cold, the antiseptic too. Riggs said nothing and watched her deftly do what he should have done three days ago. He was pretty sure burns weren’t supposed to look like that, but a trip to the hospital was out of the question.

Cahill seemed to understand that, at least she didn’t say anything to make him feel bad. As a shrink, she probably had an explanation as to why he was doing the things he did. He knew the questions and the berating would come later, but for now, she tried to mend his body, not his mind. That was nice for a change.


	4. 104: Different kinds of pain

It was only once they had arrested the bad guys, and made sure the kid who got shot was in the hospital, that Riggs realized that his face hurt. Well, stung, if he was totally honest. It had only been a glancing blow and he was pretty sure Murtaugh had held off his punch. He'd had worse, suspects lashing out and perps trying to get away and bar brawls on the weekend.

But by the time he got home – some days he was ashamed of himself when he caught sight of the trailer, a sorry reminder of the shambles that was his life – by the time he pushed the flimsy door and plopped face down on the threadbare couch, his cheek still stung something fierce. Hurt even. 

After a few shots of whisky – many, and he didn't use a glass – he realized that the pain he was feeling wasn't physical. He was starting to see Roger as a partner, a friend even, and he blew it all because he was trying to be nice to his kid. He told himself it was a good thing he didn't have kids of his own, but it was mostly the alcohol talking. 

Shouts and laughter woke him up with a start. He wiped drool and pushed hair off his face. It seemed that the bar brawl had come to him that time. He stumbled out of the trailer, holding to the door. It was dark outside, and a merry band of college students were cheering around a large bonfire, a bit farther on the beach. Seeing them happy infuriated Riggs, in a way he couldn't explain. They had to go, now.

He pushed his hair back and straightened his shirt a bit, so that he didn’t look like a drunkard – but who was he kidding – and put on his cheery crazy persona. The one which was all fake smiles, lazy drawl and broken bones. 

Introductions were short and less than courteous – too much alcohol. But even if they had been nice and had offered Riggs a beer or something, he wouldn't have backed down. It was one of those nights when he needed to feel alive, if only through pain and violence, to make sure he wasn't going mad for good. The irony wasn't lost in him, but whatever worked...

It wasn't a fair fight, but it wasn't sure for whom. They were many, and Riggs was hurting. After a few good punches on each part, the frat boys threatened to call the cops, and Riggs started laughing, and there seemed to be no stopping him. A distant voice in his head was telling him silly things, that Avery would have him suspended, that Murtaugh wouldn't come anyway, but he chose to ignore it. The frat boys finally ran away, leaving behind a smoldering bonfire, beer bottles and a few teeth. 

Riggs sat down in the cold sand and let the silence wash over him like a tidal wave. 

*

Murtaugh didn’t ignore him the next day, as Riggs thought he would. They were waiting for Avery to call them, looking like two misbehaving pupils in front the headmaster’s office. Riggs had pissed some blood in the morning, and his left flank was still tender; a purple bruise was blossoming there, no doubt. But by now, no one questioned any limp or grunt from him, it was just part of the character, like an act of sorts, designed to keep everyone at bay. 

But when he spat a loose tooth in his hand, Murtaugh gave him a horrified look and demanded an explanation. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not the only one who wanted to reshape my head using their fists yesterday.”

“Bar fight?” Murtaugh asked, with a wary expression on his face. He worried too much for his own good, Riggs thought. That was a nice change in a partner, but he still had a hard time believing his concern was genuine. 

“Better than that,” Riggs said. “A beach fight.” 

“Sounds like a party.” But Murtaugh clearly didn’t believe that. 

“You should come, the more the merrier…”

“I have a better idea,” Murtaugh said, sounding thoughtful. And that’s how he invited Riggs to a hairdresser, of all places.


	5. 105: That explosion...

It had been such a crazy day, full of all sorts of wonders... Riggs was pretty sure Murtaugh would disagree quite vehemently, but he was nowhere to be seen at the moment. Leaving him alone while a sweet nurse was stitching back his head together - that wasn't really nice of him, even though he was probably just tying up loose ends or writing a report that could wait the next day.

Or maybe he just hoped Riggs would ask the nice nurse out... nope, not happening. His head was killing him and right now, he just wanted to make sure Jackson was okay – but no, he had to sit there, in the place he hated the most. Not quite feeling the needle through his skin, but knowing it was anyway.

Murtaugh's split decision to jump through the window had come as a surprise. Riggs was sure that Roger would have a meltdown of epic proportions later on when he realized what he had done. And after that, he'd gloat and tell the tale to anyone within earshot. 

It was a good save, though, and an elegant stunt. It made him feel fuzzy inside to know that Roger trusted his abilities with his life. And so he shot a bomb midair while falling ten stories into a shallow pool below. 

It was the second time that day that they narrowly avoided an explosion rigged by Jackson. The second one had been huge; Riggs felt the heat on his skin, and the noise was loud enough to deafen him. Or maybe that was the water suddenly rushing around his head. He broke the surface, surprised to be still alive, unscathed. Turned out he wasn't.

They cheered and joked in the pool, then Murtaugh wadded to the ladder to get out, and Riggs found out that his body wasn't reacting as he wanted. His limbs felt leaden, more than waterlogged. Shell shock? He had survived worse... There was water in his eye and he couldn't see clearly. When he tried to wipe his brow, his hand came back bloody. Definitely not unscathed then.

Murtaugh freaked out - partly because the adrenaline was finally wearing off - and maybe also because he cared about Riggs. Or because of the small piece of metal sticking out of his scalp. His crazy hair had failed him, Riggs thought, as Roger helped him out of the pool. It hadn't protected him from the bomb shrapnel. 

Riggs had no problem with pain. He didn't have a high pain threshold or anything so fancy, but he welcomed it. Cahill had scribbled something about a martyr complex on her pad once; he didn't agree, but he wasn't the doctor. 

Pain, that day in the small cubicle of the ER, smelling of antiseptic and death, meant that he saved people, that he prevented Murtaugh from getting hurt, and that was enough for him. 

He'd have to warn Jackson about Cahill, later, because she could be quite assertive in her diagnostics, but talking to her – or rather not talking – had done Riggs good. He thought a lot about what he wasn't going to tell the doctor during their sessions, and maybe that was the point.

The nurse finished tying up the last small knot – he had lost count a while ago – and asked him if someone was picking him up or if he needed them to call a taxi. Riggs had planned on driving back to the cove, but he now he couldn’t remember where he had parked his car.

"Are you sure there's no one we could call?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

"Nah, they're all busy with the mess we caused." Riggs shrugged.

"I saw the explosion on the news earlier. You saved a lot of people."

"My partner's idea. He jumped through a window with a bomb."

"He must be crazy," she remarked.

"Oh you have no idea..."

"Don't listen to him," a familiar voice said in his back. "He's the crazy one."

The nurse smiled, briefly squeezed his shoulder and left him with Cruz.

"Murtaugh said he's sorry for leaving you on your own but he was sure your thick head would be okay. His words, not mine." Cruz looked at him critically, then asked, "You really okay?"

"I'll live. Where's Jackson?" Riggs asked. He stood up and looked for his damp jacket. At least the blood would be easier to scrub off this time.

"He also said you'd ask that," Cruz said with a grin. "He'd been admitted, third flood. He's been booked."

"Let's go see him."

"You shouldn't get so attached to criminals, you know,” Cruz remarked as they waited for the elevator. 

"Murtaugh's words?"

"Everyone’s, really…"

Riggs stayed silent, shifting from one foot to the other, his boots squelching unpleasantly. He still wanted to die, but maybe he had some good to do here first.


	6. 106: Nothing bad happened today.

Wrapping things up at the station, Murtaugh felt good for once. The whole case went down as smoothly as they could expect, and no one was injured in that explosion. He called that a win.

Then he saw Riggs and his face fell. The younger man looked defeated, unkempt hair and stubble, bleary eyes and that shell shock expression he sometimes got when he wasn't all there anymore. Murtaugh resisted the urge to shake him out of it and tried a friendly approach.

"Did you get hurt?"

"What?" But then Riggs shook his head slightly, as if he wasn't absolutely sure.

"In the mansion? During the chase?" Murtaugh pressed on. He knew how Riggs loved to hide his injuries. He didn’t know if it was because of an overwhelming sense of pride or a lack of self-preservation instinct.

"I'm okay," Riggs finally said with a weary smile. "Nothing bad happened for once."

"Nothing bad?!" Murtaugh sputtered. "Do you want me to list everything?" And then he proceeded to do just that, from Riggs’ reckless driving to him threatening their suspect.

"It's like you have a death wish or something,” Murtaugh concluded, without thinking.

"I do, remember?"

This time Riggs' smile didn't reach his eyes at all, and Murtaugh felt stupid all of a sudden.

"Oh. You still do?"

"Depressed people don't magically snap out of it,” Riggs recited, and that sounded like something Cahill would say.

"So you admit you're depressed?"

"I'm speaking in general."

"Why the long face, then? You save the girl, survived a huge explosion… Seriously, how did a car blow up like that, it was crazy—"

"Can I crash at your place?"

Riggs' question took him by surprise. It was unlike him to ask – he usually came and went as he pleased. But right now he looked sheepish and exhausted. 

Murtaugh hesitated a second too much before answering. There was a lot on his mind right now, and he wanted some time alone to talk with Riana.

"Forget it, Rog. I'll be okay," Riggs muttered.

"I thought you liked that trailer of yours, anyways..." 

"I like being alone. I'm not anymore." Riggs explained, teeth clenched, not looking Roger in the eye. "There's a trio of bozos disturbing the peace on my beach."

"Your beach?"

"You know what I mean." Riggs shrugged.

"Not really... But I like a little mystery in a relationship. Did you try scaring them off?" Murtaugh asked carefully. He knew Riggs could be quite disturbing when he played crazy hobo-cop. 

"Kinda... I broke their sono. And their guitar." Riggs had the decency to look guilty while confessing all that.

"And they're still there?" Murtaugh exclaimed.

"They're European or something. Not right in the head."

"Look who's talking!"

"I can't sleep," Riggs all but whined.

"I thought you lived on coffee and alcohol..."

"I can't brood in peace,” Riggs corrected. “I'm going to strangle one of them, Rog, for real..." There was something akin to despair in his voice now, something that scared Murtaugh. 

"Why don't you move the trailer to—"

"My beach," Riggs snarled. 

“I think I have an idea,” Murtaugh said, after a moment of reflection. “Do you trust me?”

 

The next evening, he surprised Riggs with a tow truck and a little story about parking ordinance. To thank him, Riggs told him why this part of the beach mattered so much to him.


End file.
